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GRIEVOUS WORDS

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Oct 3, 1895

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 21, No. 39.

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GRIEVOUS WORDS.

“‘But grievous words stir up anger’—‘but grievous words stir up anger.’ ‘A soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger.’”
Little Flossie Latimere was sitting on the calico-covered lounge, busily studying her verse for the Sabbath. Over at the table, Belle, Flossie’s older sister, was wiping the dinner dishes. Belle’s lips were firmly compressed, and there was an angry gleam in the blue eyes that were so like Flossie’s.
There was no sound in the room except the soft, monotonous voice of the child repeating the verse. And the words seemed to Belle to be set to sad, mournful music. The impatient look gradually faded from the young girl’s face, and when she had finished her dishes and swept the floor, she went and stood by Flossie’s side.
“I’ve got it learned,” the child cried triumphantly, pulling Belle down on the lounge and nestling her golden head in her sister’s lap. “Hear me say it.” And once more the childish voice repeated the words.
“What does it mean, Belle?” she asked abruptly. “What are grievous words? and how do they stir up anger?”
“It means cross words, dear,” and Belle smoothed the bright hair. “And they stir up cross feelings in the heart of the person to whom they are spoken, and the result is a quarrel.”
“Like you and Ralph to-day,” Flossie interrupted. “They must have been grievous words you said, weren’t they, Belle?”
Belle did not reply. After a moment she laid the head of the child, who was half asleep, upon the pillow, and went softly up to her room. Flossie’s question had stung her, and as she stood before the glass, brushing her hair, she reviewed the scene to which the child had referred.
Mrs. Latimere was away on a visit, so Bellewas housekeeper. She had gone to the sitting room a half hour after dinner, and found disorder reigning there. Ralph had carried the cushions from the chairs to the couch, scattered the papers over the table, and overturned his sister’s workbasket.
Belle scolded. “I wish you would stay out of here,” she said, by way of conclusion. “You are always making work.”
“Just giving your tongue exercise,” Ralph replied teasingly. “Say, Belle, do you like to scold?”
“That’s all you care. You are the worst boy I know, and I’m ashamed of you.”
Ralph sprang up from the couch at that. “I don’t claim to be a goody-goody like you,” he cried hotly. “You’re a pretty Christian, Belle Latimere!” and Ralph slammed the door after him.
“Yes, Flossie, dear, they were grievous words,” and Belle leaned against the window frame, letting her eyes wander over the gayly-tinted October woods. “I wish I could be a better sister to Ralph. I love him, but, oh, my horrid temper!” And she brushed away the tears.
She finished her simple toilet. As she descended the stairs, she murmured, “I’ve proved the last part of Flossie’s verse, now I’ll try the first,” and a quick prayer winged its way to where no cry for help is ever unheeded.
Belle went straight to the sitting room and began putting it in order. In a few moments Flossie came in, bright and cheery after her nap. “Please, sis, can’t I go out where papa and Ralph are?”
“Papa has gone to town, but you can go to the west barn, where Ralph is packing apples,” Belle said, kissing the pink cheek. “Get your hat, Blossom.”
“I’s hungry, sister, hungry for crullers.”
Belle laughed and hurried to the pantry. Coming back, she gave the child, besides her own crullers, three wrapped in a paper.
“Give them to Ralph, say your verse to him, and tell him Belle said she wished she had studied the first part of it this afternoon.”
“All right,” and Flossie ran away.
An hour later, when she came in, Belle, who was filling the shining copper teakettle preparatory to beginning supper, asked softly, “What did Ralph say?”
“He said to tell you the crullers were jolly, and he’d learn the verse, too. Won’t that be funny, though, for us all to learn it?”
Ralph was washing at the kitchen sink when Belle came from the cellar. She placed the pitcher of cream and the ball of golden butter she carried on the table and hesitated a moment.
You know how hard it is to confess a fault, and it was no easier for Belle than for you or me. But help came to her in that moment of silence—shall we say in answer to the prayer of a few hours before?
“Forgive me, Ralph, for my hasty words;” her voice trembled a little. “I am ashamed of myself for—”
“Now, don’t say anything more, Belle,” and a blush burned its way through the tan on the boyish cheeks. “I was the one to blame, and, sister, I’m sorry I said what I did about—well, you know.”
“Yes, I know, Ralph, and I don’t blame you. I am a faulty Christian, but I am going to try to be a better one. You know I have a dreadful temper.”
“Well, you are not alone there. That is a family possession of the Latimeres’; Belle, we’ll fight it out together after this.”
“Yes,” and a pleasant smile lingered around the girl’s lips. “We’ll prove that ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath,’ as well as ‘grievous words stir up anger.’”—Philadelphia Methodist.